...before you, life was desolate - the past hardly worth remembering - and now, each moment a keepsake I can't throw away ...
...every time I look at you autumn leaves come in between - does it matter they're the color of your hair - or they still fall in my memory?...
...I recall that day on the beach - the sand so brilliant, the clouds so massive, and the wind punishing your hair...
...we went to watch the waves that bitter day and the wind took your red cap and mittens - blew them into the sea...
...strands of your hair and tendrils of the wind spin into nothingness the memories of that day...
...when I was a kid, Toronto streets were deserted and quiet on Sundays, except for the sound of church bells I stood on the sidewalk one December listening to the Christmas bells - I've never forgotten that moment...
...dark embers smolder inside me - one touch and they flare - who would have thought memory combustible, or near you bright sparks appear?...
...I want to live doubly - first with you and then afterwards in memory ...
...your memory is a warm stone hidden in my hand I'm always turning over...
...no good writing flows from a polluted well - you can write about monsters, but you can't be one...
...our monsters walk the dark pathways of secret motives...
...all these epic battles and monsters lately - but love is a tiny world and I prefer a more personal style...
...I'm shy in person - so afraid to confess my love - I need a go-between - our mutual friend, the Moon...
...I see myself at crossroads in my life, mapless, lacking bits of knowledge - then, the Moon breaks through, lights up the path before me...
...I live with regrets - the bittersweet loss of innocence - the red track of the moon upon the lake - the inability to return and do it again...
...Neruda was right about all mysterious women - The moon lives in the lining of their skin...
...I got to love solitude - to see the Moon rise and set - I had time to watch it trace the window square across the wall in silent grace...
...winter crescent resting in the high pine bough - you fly through the woods like a lone snow bird...
...careful the morning lest it wake from slumber the city half-encumbered by the morning mist ...
...The heart mourns people and places and returns to them in dreams...
...I've discovered why you fascinate - you keep the mystery and as Carlyle noted, Wonder is the basis of worship...
